


Distant Shores

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The days in which he turns heads at the tavern are gone. (Fenris/Anders slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant Shores

**Author's Note:**

> Stormdragon prompted this when I was taking milestone requests on Tumblr.
> 
> "If it not too late. I finally thought of a prompt. Fenris/Anders, meeting again after a some/long time."

The days in which he turns heads at the tavern are gone.

It isn't the Hanged Man -- a shore too distant, a place too humid, too many years later -- but it serves him just as well. He comes. He leaves. He finds people willing to deal in work that requires a sword.

It's a better fate than he once could have hoped; it's his own.

There are still those that would change it, that would recognize him for his association with the Champion, with the abomination, but in Rivain, they don't find him quite so readily. It's a land full of color and people who are, if nothing else, less prone to the pull of the Chantry and its politics, steeped in culture and tradition.

Their stance on mages is dangerous, but so are many things; he goes only where necessity and the stubborn advice of Hawke and Varric occasionally take him.

For the last five years, that is here.

He doesn't receive word of the others often and sees them even less frequently, but there are some who have a way of finding him when he least desires it.

"It _is_ you, then."

Before he looks up from his drink, he knows what he will see: half fallen hair, stubborn stubble, and some variation of ridiculous clothing.

Fenris isn't entirely wrong, but something about the grey sprouting at the mage's temples, the shadows under his eyes, the fraying of his shirt, steals a fraction of his victory.

"Is there a reason you're here?"

An illusion of friendship would be an insult to them both -- and Fenris doesn't dwell on the inexplicable thing that nearly was between them.

The mage seems to take it as an invitation and sits. Though it causes Fenris to shift, to unfold his arms from the rough tabletop and draw himself upright, he offers nothing else.

"I had to. Things are complicated. I... needed a place to keep my head down for awhile."

"And you find yourself here?"

"Varric's idea. It seemed to be the most sensible."

Not a coincidence then; these things rarely are when the dwarf is involved. There can only be a handful of events to chase the mage away from his brethren, and Fenris cares for none of them.

His voice pitches low, just short of a rumbled whisper. "If you bring your pursuers to my doorstep, I will complicate things further, _Anders_." He stops himself at "mage," a monicker that doesn't need to be spoken if he's to follow his own warning.

The flash of bitterness is clear in the mage's face, his voice. "It's nice to see some things haven't changed, namely your ability to see the best in everyone."

"It's a gift, or so I am told." Fenris tips the ale to his lips, drinks liberally, and offers nothing else.

It's too much to hope that the mage will leave it as it is.

"There were reports that you were captured," he says, eyes on his knuckles. "'A tattooed elf associated with Hawke' is what we kept hearing. I'm... Well, it's good that it's not true."

The gaze that settles on the mage is uncertain. "Indeed. What of Merrill?"

"Still with Hawke and Isabela."

"A ruse then," Fenris dimisses, "one that Hawke was wise to ignore."

The mage frowns and shakes his head. "Right. Of course."

Fenris uses that silence to drain the remains of his drink and to get to his feet, pausing long enough to consider the mage a last time. "If you choose to remain, mind yourself. This place is not what it seems."

"Aren't they all like that?" The mage's smile is cynical if not exhausted.

"That's often the case, yes."

Fenris doesn't linger beyond that, retiring to the cramped room that is his for the evening. When the knock comes, he knows who he will find on the other side of the door.

He already knows that he will, against all reason, let him inside.


End file.
